


A Month's Miscellaneous Musings

by empressgwenny



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Drama, Feelings, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Multi, Original Characters - Freeform, Romance, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2019, cross over character, post shadowbringers, takes place in RP universe, various POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-10-10 06:26:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 10,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20523437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empressgwenny/pseuds/empressgwenny
Summary: Collection of pieces done for the #FFxivWrite2019 challenge. Some fic verse, some roleplay verse. All of them about Biff Guy and the silly adventurers who follow him.





	1. Prompt #1: Voracious

It was the song of steel meeting steel, a shrill melody to match the rhythm of his pounding heart. Yes, that was the hunger. That was the heat. With each thrust of his axe, his body felt it keenly. Sweet aches. A fire under the flesh. A need to smell, to taste, the salt of fresh blood. Mere broken bones did not quell the flame, but rather fed it. They could be his own. It only goaded the shadow of death to come out of hiding. That was when the real fun began.


	2. Prompt #2: Bargain

What do you owe the universe for the things you didn’t ask of it? The question haunted him many nights, as he listened to the silence of starlight. He was more grateful than he could say. Feelings that burned in his heart turned to ash on his tongue. What if he jinxed it? In the end, he was only a boy from the country. He had only wanted to find adventure, to meet new people, to see the world. He had gotten all that, and more. Ever more. He had been blessed with resolve unwavering, with support realm-wide, and with the sort of luck that gods granted their prophets until their time was up.

It could all disappear on him at any moment. But that was just. That was owed. The wheel of fortune was not known for standing still.


	3. Prompt #3: Lost

She had stumbled blindly through those five long years. The faces of her friends haunted her dreams. Though the realm could not remember them, she could not forget. Una, Edila, Wayward Sparrow. Zorido, Vairemont, Biff. It was a lonely existence. Her life was stuck. The world was busy rebuilding itself, but she stood ever still, memory mimicking motion. In the mornings, she flinched away from the sun’s crimson rays. In the silence of night, she became a girl again, young and hopeful, making all too breakable promises to a love that wouldn’t last.

_You have to,_ whispered Una’s ghost. _For both of us._

But the music came not to her fingers. It was drowned out by the noise of a world returning to life. She was a shade passing through a town painted in smiles. Harmony, they promised. It was an easier one to keep than hope.

_It’ll be like we’re still together,_ Una insisted. _Just try, please? For me?_

The young girl had only laughed in return. _Only if I survive! Which we both know I won’t._

S’dennmo shivered. The din of the tavern rattled in her ears. Rowdy sellswords exchanged heated words in the far corner of the room. At another table, hunters boasted loudly of their prey. Still another saw three glamour-obsessed girls squealing over the scarves of one another. Were there no bards playing tonight? That would certainly distract this rabble from their relentless shenanigans.

_You will,_ Una laughed back. _It’ll be you. Besides. I know there is a diva inside you._

With a hefty sigh, S’dennmo rose to her feet. One step, then another, found her atop the table of boisterous, boorish hunters. A silence fell over them at the sight of her. The red hair—yes, they were always weak for the red hair.

“Listen well, fellow patrons of the Canopy,” crooned S’dennmo, smiling sweetly, strumming her lyre. “For it is rare indeed when S’dennmo Jinh, rising star of Eorzea, comes out to play.”

_This is for you, Una,_ came a whisper from a woman’s heart.


	4. Prompt #4: Shifting Blame

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this!”

Ever sprinted headlong into the darkness, pumping her long, stocky legs as hard as she could.

_“Me!?”_ Where the torchlight caught his silhouette, a man’s grin flickered against the shadow. Biff cackled, his axe raised high. _“You_ were the one what said, ‘keep goin’, we can take more’!”

“I most certainly did not!” yelped the mage in protest. “That was you!”

“Was it really?” A genuinely clueless look. She might have strangled the man, could she keep up with him. It wasn’t enough that he was impossibly strong. The gods had to give him super speed, too.

“Yes!” she cried out, throwing a spell at a galloping Gigantoad (for all the good that it did). Jackals snapped at her heels. “I said, we should bring a healer! But no! We can do it by ourselves, he says!”

“We can!” insisted Biff, skidding to a halt. He was still smiling, much to her vexation. There was a time and place for masculine composure, after all, and the glint in his eyes spoke more of madness than anything manly.

In a moment’s lapse, she stumbled and nearly lost her footing. What she did lose was speed. Their enemies were gaining on them, quickly; in a breath, she was caught up in a storm of beasts and ghouls and slimy, toady creatures. Seething, she lifted her rod, focusing a thunder spell; if she was going to die, it might as well be doing what she loved.

Her spell took too long. The senseless monsters passed her up, instead catching up with the crazed axeman who had been backed against a wall. So large where the beasts that she could no longer see him, even as she dashed to close the distance between them. Fingers of nausea closed around her stomach, clenching it tight. His shadow, stretched in the firelight, danced to the song of his wild laugh.

“Biff, you reckless imbecile!” cried Ever Starfall. A spell crackled and flared at her fingertips. “Your blood will not be on my hands!”


	5. Prompt #5: Vault

Funny how his whole life had come to revolve around taking leaps. The first, and biggest, had been his faith. He had given heart and soul to Halone, believing in her over everyone else. It made the most sense when everyone was doing it. The older he got, the realer it felt. 

Then, it was Ishgard. To her, he pledged life and lance, unquestioningly. She was the place of his birth. She was the home of truth and justice. His brothers-in-arms rallied around their duty to protect and serve her, for only in their subservience could they find glory unadulterated. Halone would be proud.

Or so he thought. Promises, like leaps, are a passing motion. There is the high and the low, and then something breaks. Legs, feet. Hearts. The foundations of a civilization. All that a man has ever known, or believed in, or sought for himself. Indeed, his every aspect of existence could be based on a lie. So he thought as he tumbled further and further into the darkness of reality, and into the bottom of his glass.

Funny how his whole life had been laid low by a man taking leaps. The Warrior of Light, they had called him. Really, the man was an empty-headed oaf. A relentless smiler, too, with a patient disposition. The hanging silences had annoyed him at first, but he had come to appreciate them. They were not arrogant, nor uncaring. They were meant to be filled. With words of doubt and fear, of anger and grief, of loyalty and friendship. Of faith.

And so, once again, Sylveret Jantellot made a leap. Once again, he pledged his lance. For, if he could not have faith in his friends, what in the world was there left to fight for?


	6. Prompt #6: First Steps

“Your cheeks look so pink in this light.”

Mikazuki smiled a soft, secret smile. A cleverness glinted in his eyes. Perhaps that was the power of a crescent moon: to capture discretion in a look both knowing and questioning. Biff, compelled by these wondrous eyes, averted his own gaze and blushed a shade darker. He focused instead on the dance, placing a hand on the swordsman’s waist, leading them to begin.

“D-Do they?” he managed in reply, watching their steps slowly synchronize. “Maybe I’m drunk. Aye, that must be it.” Quickly, he cleared his throat. “Yer so light on yer feet, I won’t feel it if ye step on mine.”

The smile was traded for a pout of disapproval. “I came to dance with my love and he won’t look at me. I even tried so hard to look like a proper human.” Mikazuki turned his nose up. “I wanted to be especially beautiful for you.”

“N-No! That’s not—I just—” His heart fluttered; he laughed, merrily. “Ye see right through me, don’t ye!?”

Biting his lip, he took in the sight of Mikazuki. It was all he could do to restrain another laugh, or else another fumbling syllable. How could one describe it? There was no greater joy than admiring the face of one’s beloved, glowing in the starlight. So gentle were those features, so appealing was every ilm of his countenance! His lips were sweet no matter the shape they took. His eyes, slender as the fox, luminous as the Moon, belonged to another realm entirely. The quirk of his fine brow, the colour of his dark hair, the confidence of his nose, the daintiness of his frame… 

“Ye look exceptional, love. Like a dream.” Biff pulled him closer. “I could kiss ye, but I’m afraid I’ll only embarrass ye again. And I couldn’t bear t’ see ye disappear another time!”

Mikazuki laughed lightly. Biff, turning pink, might have laughed along—but his lips were caught in a kiss. Then, for a moment suspended, there was nothing in the world but the warmth of their love.

“How is that?” came the mischievous question.

“Grand,” said Biff, swinging him around, the tempo of the song quickening. He smiled an unruly smile. “That was grand.”


	7. Prompt #7: Forgiven

_We always laughed_  
_that your soul was too big_  
_for your body—that, someday,_  
_it would break free_

_Will it still be you?_

_I dream of alabaster_  
_statues unmoving, unsmiling,_  
_wings outspread, waiting_  
_to take flight_

_I search, night after night,_  
_for your face, hoping_  
_I’ll never find it_

_Is it a blessing or a curse?_  
_Burdens, I suppose, are both._  
_I only wish, like all the others,_

_we could carry it with you._

—from the desk of S’dennmo Jinh


	8. Prompt #8: Resolve / Free Write

Who was he, without a shield to protect? If his conviction had been broken, had he broken his oath, too? For, if a man is only as good as his word, then what good is a man who has lost the strength to keep it? 

The answers long eluded him. With conviction came the absence of doubt, after all. For years, he was content engrossing himself in the service of others, protecting the downtrodden, standing fiercely against the swords of greed, corruption, and tyranny. At least, in his youth, it had seemed so. A fledgling adventurer is not picky to the work that comes his way. In the end, he could not discern whether it was purely conviction upon which he had wholly founded his character, or if he simply had been a youth drunk on success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it about h'zula


	9. Prompt #9: Hesitate

“And if I have to hear another trite, self-obsessed tale of finding oneself, or otherwise some exaggerated power fantasy, it will be too soon. _Too soon,_ Eyrisunn!”

Eyrisunn smiled appealingly, hoping that, having closed her book, Wiltwyda would glance his way. She instead opened another, with much exasperation.

“I simply cannot understand it,” she carried on, growing louder. “I simply. _Cannot._ Understand it! Have people no other concerns, outside the mundane goings-on of their lives? Or else, perhaps, the fantasies that they surely dream up, but do not commit to pursuing in any fashion? I apologize, Eyrisunn, but I cannot help myself. I think them all to be cowards and liars. Lying to _themselves,_ of course. The lack of self-awareness is maddening!”

His smile faltered, for he feared he had heard footsteps down the hall. Just as he ascertained no one was joining them in the sprawling library, Wiltwyda found her breath again.

“They think not of what it means to be a society. A civilized, compassionate society in which we are mindful of one another. All I hear is the selfish chatter of me, me, me. It’s enough to drive a woman into a murderous rage! If only I could heave this very volume at someone right this moment!”

“W-Well,” Eyrisunn interjected, anxious, “you certainly could. But that someone would be incredibly grateful if you didn’t.”

Wiltwyda groaned and dropped the tome at her feet. Turning to the stack anew, she fished out a third, even larger text. Eyrisunn quickly retrieved the book and set it aside, hoping she would not notice.

“You must think me overly pessimistic. Or critical. Or even harsh! You know? I’ve also been called a misanthrope. Me, a misanthrope! The nerve of some people!”

“I find you _delightfully_ pessimistic, Wyda,” added Eyrisunn, sweetly.

The page sighed and shook her head. “If only I could see the good in people as easily as you do, Eyri. I suppose that is why you took up the shield.”

He had also taken up a rose, which he had carefully hidden behind his back for about an hour, at this point. But she did not have to know that. She sounded as though she needed an ear. Clumsily, he smiled for her again, groping for some new words.

“You desire a better future for us all,” he said, slowly. “I do not think that misanthropic in the least.”

Wiltwyda looked up from her book, eyebrows raised. “Yes… You understand. Oh—What is that you’re holding, dear?”

“W-What? This?” He snapped the stem in two and shoved it under his arm. With a painful smile, he showed her his empty hand. “Absolutely nothing. My convictions, perhaps. One must hold very stoutly on to those. Especially in my line of work.

Her expression could not settle on either amusement or curiosity. She twitched her shoulders, returning to her task, but the smile had not left her lips. “Oh, yes. Do hold fast to your convictions, my friend. I have the feeling you will need them soon, in matters other than your discipline.”

He was not sure what she meant by that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wyda is too smart and good for all of us


	10. Prompt #10: Foster

“I have come to request your tutelage, Mistress Starfall,” said Dolyn, genuflecting. He pointedly avoided the boring eyes of his uncle, whose shock was writ bold upon his face.

The black mage towered over him, drawn to her full Elezen height. Dolyn dared not look up at her, lest his own gaze betray his anxiety. Nothing less than a stout resolve would do to persuade her, and make evident his sincerity. She was an adventurer of renown compared to him, and the constant companion to the Warrior of Light, no less. Though, of course, one could always make the argument that it made a certain sense for her to mentor him, as the oldest nephew to said Warrior.

“What do you think, Biff?” said Ever, considering the sprout with much amusement.

“I think he’s spendin’ too much time around them blue blooded lads,” spat Biff, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “Where’s yer tongue gone, wain? Don’t tell me yer hidin’ it, jus’ like yer Uncle Brad.”

“I’m—not.” Dolyn smiled warmly, and defiantly. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to grow and change, is there?”

Ever only shrugged. “No one can hide where they come from. It never leaves your heart, for better or for worse.”

“This is definitely worse,” said Biff, scowling.

“Now, now. Did you not yourself tell the boy he should take some lessons?” Ever pulled her long, spindly fingers through Dolyn’s hair. “He looks so much like you.”

“He looks like his Grandda,” said Biff. “Better he learn than get himself killed.”

Dolyn pursed his lips, shooting his uncle a look of annoyance. He was met with a furious stare that was somehow both searing and frigid. It reminded him too much of his grandmother, which sent a chill down his spine. Better to demur than to get a sound thrashing. Surely, a man named for a punch knew how to throw one.

“Oh, would you relax already? Why is it that you laugh like a madman in the heat of battle, but you become such a buzzkill around your own relatives?” Ever took Dolyn’s hand, urging him to rise. “Of course I’ll mentor you. But only if you promise to wear nothing but jet black from now on.”


	11. Prompt #11: Snuff

Bea swirled her alecup, lazily surveying the carefree patrons of the Drowning Wench. Though it proved difficult with the addition of an unnecessary eyepatch (she had always wanted to try one), she found that, across the motley crowd of adventurers, laborers and traders, she was, by far, the oldest. An irksome revelation, she admitted to herself, but not an unexpected one. She hoped she did not stand out.

It was during this moment’s vanity that she located her quarry. He sat by himself, an Eorzean samurai draped in crimson, considering his drink with a secret smile. He was so much like his father, his face the spitting image, his posture tall and proud. Yet, in the lantern light, his chestnut hair betrayed strands of red. For this, Bea smiled her own secret and took a satisfied sip.

“Evening, old-timer,” nodded a Miqo’te man, a head shorter than her. A scar ran down his nose, slanted from left to right. “I see you’ve taken an interest in the Warrior of Light.”

“What’s it to ye?” Bea snatched a pitcher from the barmaid and refilled her glass.

“He has something of a reputation.” The adventurer watched, with some dismay, as Bea handed back the empty pitcher. He shot the barmaid an apologetic look. “I could enlighten you, for a fee.”

Bea snorted. “Oooh, a fee, says he.” She tossed a bag of gil across the table. “What’ll that get me?”

Wide-eyed, he searched the pouch and prodded its contents with a finger. “Well,” he said, “it gets you anything you’d like to know.”

“Lucky me.” She took a long, thoughtful sip of her ale. Then, slowly, her lip curled into a smirk. “His mother. What’s her name?”

“Come… again?” The adventurer tilted his head, as if straining to hear. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Ye said ye’d give me anythin’ I’d like t’ know.” Bea lifted her glass in way of the man’s payment. “I’m askin’ who the lad’s mother is. What’s her name?”

The adventurer wrinkled his brow. His Miqo’te ears flattened against his head. “I… I couldn’t tell you _that,_ Ma’am. I don’t think anyone could. He’s a simple man from the hills. What’s it matter?”

A silence hung between them. Setting her drink on the table, she looked him over once more. One step, then another, brought her to his side of the table. He quivered and his tail flicked, but his gaze did not falter. Ah, adventurers! What a bold, determined, reckless lot were they!

So she threw a punch at his stupid, scarred nose and, instantly, he was on the floor, writhing in pain. Blood gushed from both his nostrils.

“Beatrice Strong,” said the old woman, giving him another kick for good measure. “Her name is Beatrice Strong.”


	12. Prompt #12: Fingers Crossed

Leodaire happily admired the portrait hung upon the wall. He could not say for sure, having seen the man with his own eyes only once in his life, but it did capture a certain likeness that could not be denied. The painted strokes of silver hair proudly contrasted the brilliant crimson background. A knight basking in the light of a setting sun—yes, that was what the artist had said. Leodaire pretended, of course, the sun was rising. It made the smiles come easier.

At his back, Arslang passed into the common room through the front door. With a snort, he said, “Another? Really?”

“This one does him justice,” Leodaire insisted, a nose in the air. “We can’t hang just any old picture on the wall. It has to be perfect!”

Plopping on the sofa, Arslang laughed. “So you say, but I’ll be praying it is true. Shall I keep my fingers crossed, too?”

“You wound me,” pouted Leodaire, falling back to wilt daintily on a gold-plated fainting couch. “You cannot be accusing me of being wasteful.”

“You’re not resourceful, that’s for certain.” Arslang tucked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. “And if you keep making these outlandish purchases, it’ll land Dolyn in even hotter water. His uncle disapproves of us, you know.”

“It’s not us he disapproves of!” Defiant, Leodaire sat up. “It’s— well—” He shriveled into himself. In a small voice, he continued. “Is it really us? I didn’t mean to cause Dolyn so much trouble… ” 

“There’s always time to change that.” Arslang looked to the portrait that smiled serenely down on them. “Don’t you think so, Lord Haurchefant?”


	13. Prompt #13: Wax

“Alright, alright! Just, please, indulge me this one time. Well, three times. I’ve written three versions, all in varying structures, and each approach has its own strength, see? Since you are an unbiased party, I know you’ll give me an answer unclouded by petty things like the need to spare my feelings or…” 

Brad carried on like this for some time, whilst Biff nodded along over his plate of eggs and toast. He might have contradicted his brother, but Biff knew better than to tempt fate. Brad did not hear the words of others until he was done with his own. It was an innocent fixation, to be sure, albeit a selfish one. Yet, though it weighed heavily on the hearts of those who were not accustomed to it, Brad had never learned to notice, too consumed by his eagerness to prove himself.

Upon finishing his meal, Biff took it upon himself to open the morning’s paper. Surely, his brother’s prattles would wind down soon. As if on cue, Brad flipped through his notes a fourth time, and finally said, “Okay, here it is! Let me read it to you, hm? I’m reading now… Here, it reads:

_“In the sparkle of your eye, I find_  
_A joy so bright, it threatens to blind_  
_And in my heart, that old song plays_  
_Of our times together, and better days.”_

“Yer poetry is bad, and you should feel bad,” Biff replied, not looking up.

“Come on! I thought that was solid!” Brad let out a hefty sigh and shuffled anxiously through his notes. “Excellent, one might even say. It’s much better than the nonsense that passes for poetry nowadays. Any old pretender can write a lyric, but it takes a well-read sort to really appreciate the craft.”

“Ye can’t jus’ rhyme some pretty words and hope there’s a meanin’ behind ‘em. Are ye even writin’ with yer heart?”

Irked by this disarming logic, the would-be poet dropped into an empty chair. “What more is there to say? I find her company appealing.”

“Wow. That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Now, you’re just antagonizing me!” The scholar flung his papers across the table, letting them scatter where they would. Taking his head between his hands, he stared down at nothing in particular. “Alright, maybe you aren’t. You’re the only person who wouldn’t, but… What am I missing?” He lifted his eyes. “What would you say to the one you love?”

Biff closed his newspaper and set it aside. Aye, that was a question. In the first place, he did not even like the woman Brad had taken into his heart; in the second, he did not think the pretentious peahen felt the same. Still, he allowed that Brad must find out the truth for himself. It was a brave thing to do, and doubly so for his book-obsessed brother. So, Biff closed his eyes, reached a hand into his soul, and softly said:

_“In his eye, I catch the moon_  
_Golden, waxing like a dune_  
_And soft, like silk, are his hands_  
_That love me timeless as the sands.”_

Brad pursed his lips and crossed his arms. “Your poetry is bad, and you should feel bad!”

A merry laugh rumbled from Biff’s throat. “Passion’s more important than pretty words, is all I’m sayin’. It’s a risk yer takin’, puttin’ yer heart to paper. And it’s a risk yer takin’ to confess yer love. Ye must think, aye, but ye must first let yerself feel it all.”

Crossing his arms, the scholar considered this with a severe, stony look. Then, he nodded. “I will try, little brother. I will try.”


	14. FFxivWrite2019 - Prompt #14: Scour

It felt different than she thought it would.

She had expected to feel like a stranger. Her memories of the motherland had all but faded away. They had been replaced with stories, from parents and friends and books, but they had never belonged to her, not truly. Growing up, she learned their words. As a woman, she believed in their battle-hardened faiths. Yet, still, she had known she would be as a spectre of a notion, only partially fulfilled, always partially unrelated to the world she drifted through.

So when she looked like them, it was a surprise. It should not have been, of course. That was the most innocuous part of it all, that her skin wore the same shapes and colors as theirs. Still, it felt like magic, or like a piece of the puzzle she’d never known she’d missed. She found herself looking in the mirror more often, or admiring her reflection in the water, or looking into the ancient eyes of mighty Rhalgr and seeing herself staring solidly back. It was like finding herself for the first time, a different sort of belonging. Yes, she belonged somewhere—she belonged in her own skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pov character is atheleys walder


	15. Prompt #15: Regret / Free Write

He had never deserved her in life. She was all serenity and sweet words, a tender woman with a sunshine smile. When faced with the rage of fire, she matched the steps of its dancing flames. Understanding, she said, was the answer to a heart aching with anger. And when the stillness of ice threatened to take her in its condescension, she knew to wield her warmth and passion against its influence. The notions of others would not control her, she declared, for she loved herself too much. All along, he had known she was a mage true, for he had admired her from a distance and watched her slowly bloom.

And who was he then? The sort of man who scowled at friends like they were strangers. What composure he boasted came with an arsenal of sharp retorts and judgments preformed. He, too, had no interest in the opinions of others; but it was less love and more indulgence he felt for himself. Eccentric, they called him, and proudly he sneered. It was better than the names they called him behind his back. Arrogant, selfish, inflexible. The man with a thousand excuses. The man who demanded the elements, and the world entire, bend to his will. He knew it not then, but their opinions were truths.

Looking back, he did not like that person, let alone love him. He would never understand how she had come to love him, nor why she had wasted so much of her time by his side. But when the color went out of her face, he was sure of one thing—he must make a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pototo about his wife. silly angsty dweeb.


	16. Prompt 16: Jitter

“Estelle. Are ye busy?”

Dolyn looked up from his book towards Lady Starfall, who hovered over her potions at the table. In the dim light of the study, they glowed ruby and azure and emerald in each of their flasks. At her back stood his uncle, who peered around her arm (he, too, was a head shorter than her) to gape in awe at her work.

“Not at all.” She turned to him, a smile on her lips. “You look… worried.”

“Me? No.” He shrank away from her, crossing his arms. He could not meet her eyes. “I mean, it ain’t serious, nothin’ world-endin’, that’s all. What’s t’ worry about? There’s nothin’.”

“Then let us not quibble with semantics.” Lady Starfall turned to stir her cauldron. “What weighs on your heart, my friend?”

Uncle Biff furrowed his brow and shuffled his feet. It had been an absurdly long time since Dolyn had seen who he was beyond all the anger and disapproval. The man was too genuine to conceal his emotions, and too passionate to feel them superficially; so every sentiment was writ bold on his face, sometimes rigid and harsh as stone, sometimes soft and sweet as honey, sometimes restless and dramatic as a storm.

“Nothin’,” Biff insisted, shaking his head. “Never mind it.”

Even with her back turned, Dolyn could hear the amusement in his lady’s voice. “Nothing, he says. And yet he asks if I am busy. If you are afraid of saying something irrational, my friend, rest assured, you will not be judged. It will never be nearly as mad as anything Zenos yae Galvus has said.”

Biff’s jaw clenched. “What’re ye bringin’ him up for?”

“To move something in you, that your tongue might loosen. Did it work?”

A silence. Then, a snort. A laugh rolled heartily after it. “... Aye. It did.”


	17. Prompt #17: Obeisant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i did this b/c my friends convinced me that it would be funny.... so, here we are..... can u guys believe i passed on writing about sophia for this..... oh right, content warning for explicit sexual... sexuality... nakedness... sexual conduct... stuff, i guess.

_You love me even when I am rigid and unyielding steel. I love you even when you are a soft, naked thing in water. It’s very perfect._

Mikazuki Munechika glistened and gleamed from his perch upon the counter. The light seemingly emerged from the sword itself, dancing joyfully upon the steel with a whimsical serenity. Content, Biff realized. The heart of Mikazuki Munechika was content.

A deep red crept over his face as Biff sank into the bath. He was entirely too big for it, the broad and brawny man, and yet: “Ye make me sound so delicate.” He did not know where to look. Away seemed right. “... I like it.”

_Aren’t you? Sometimes, you feel like a little doll in my arms._ The light of the sword intensified, skipping along its length with a renewed enthusiasm. _Look at me, love! My patterns are so pretty in the light!_ A playful chime followed, lively as a cuckoo’s song. 

Biff stole a hungry glance at the sword. How sweet was his heart, and how simple were his wants! His every emotion was whole and sincere; and a man could not feel more loved when his own sword performed such miracles for the pleasure of his attention. And, indeed, a pleasure it was; for the sight stoked in Biff the heat that he had, for some time, labored to ignore.

As he lay back, his hand disappeared under the water. “Yer radiant, my love.” With a little pull, his breath shook as it passed over his lips. “Ye smile sweeter than the moon…” 

_It would be fun, wouldn’t it? If I held you like a doll again? Normally, you get to hold me._ Hototogisu continued to gleam, positively unsuspicious of that strange breath, distracted by his own glee. 

“It would, my sweet…” The thought made him dizzy. Or, perhaps, that was the heat in his loins. It took him, the love he bore for his blade, and carried from his throat a soft moan. He arched his back, filled with need, and feeling too acutely the confinement of the tub. Somewhere, he caught his breath. “Will ye hold me through the night, an’ whisper yer sweet nothings?”

_I will whisper anything you want… until the dawn light steals you from me,_ purred Hototogisu. _And then I will stroke your chest and beg you to stay._

“And then I’ll— bring ye with me—” A sharp breath. “—so we’ll never be apart.”

The light grew ever intense until it made a radiant flash. From the light came Hototogisu, who threw himself into the water with a great splash, and eagerly fell into the arms of his love. Biff, who had believed himself (correctly) to having concealed the taking of his pleasure, let out a shrill cry of shock. Perhaps out of the fear, his passion grew stronger; for he took hold of his love tightly, and their lips met in a heated kiss.

Happily, Hototogisu beat his downy, white wings against the water and snuggled close to Biff’s chest. When he said nothing further, Biff wrapped his arms around his betrothed.

“Hn… Were ye gettin’ lonely, my love?”

“A little…” 

Hototogisu sat against his hips. Biff could not help but notice that his garments were drenched and, well, that he was wearing garments. Many layers of them, as was his way. For this reason, the little cuckoo could not feel _exactly_ what he was sitting on. Or could he…? 

“You were saying such nice things about me,” chirped Hototogisu, “I just had to come out!” Cheerily, he ran his hands through Biff’s wet hair. “My husband-to-be!”

He… could not.

“Oh, I see!” Biff laughed lightly, hoping he could will himself to forget. “Yer sweet as cream, my love, my heart.” He pressed a soft kiss to Hototogisu’s nose. “And yer innocent as a maid.”

This pleased Hototogisu, who squeezed his love with the breathtaking power of a god. Or, it might have taken a man’s breath, if the man enduring this casual display of might was not Biff Guy.

“But you still love me,” cooed Hototogisu, nuzzling his neck.

“O’ course I do,” said Biff, resting his forehead against his lover’s. A sneer came over his face. “Ye really have no idea… Ahh, yer so bloody cute.”

Hototogisu tilted his head, eyes wide, the very picture of an empty-headed bird. When a silence threatened to build, he fluttered his wings vigorously (cutely). How could anyone think him less than sweet? For this, he received a kiss from his love, tender, lingering.

“Never change, my love,” said Biff, softly.

“You already think I changed,” pouted the cuckoo. “I am still Hototogisu, no?”

A chuckle. “Aye. I suppose what I meant was… I love that heart of yers.”

The joy this brought Hototogisu was great, for he smiled a sunshine smile and bounced merrily in Biff’s lap. It made Biff question whether he really couldn’t feel the hard cock underneath—for this was often Hototogisu’s mode of flirtation, wherein he played his own games of joy, which ultimately seduced poor Biff with an overpowering sweetness. 

“I like yours, too! It’s so big and soft.” Hototogisu wriggled and purred. “And warm!” 

That sounded like… anything, really. And nothing at all. But all the bouncing only stoked the heat, calling a powerful sigh from Biff’s lips. The poor, naked fool pulled his lover into a tender kiss.

Then, he whispered, “Would ye be a dear an’ pull me off, love?”

“What’s that?” Hototogisu pressed closer still, as if there were any closer to get.

Biff blinked, then cleared his throat. Calmly, he took Hototogisu’s hand and pressed a kiss to the knuckles. “It’s when ye take yer pretty, little hand and pleasure me.” He placed his sweetheart’s hand on his muscled stomach, where the water yet glistened as it dripped off him. “Do ye think ye could do that, my sweet?”

Hototogisu said nothing for a moment, simply looking where he was asked to look. Then, his eyes lit up with the spark of understanding, and he took hold of his lover’s cock. Only, when it came to the pulling, the cuckoo closed his hand around it ferociously, with all the might a god could muster… which, for poor Biff, was the equivalent of being razed by a thousand falling Dalamuds.

He yelped for his life. “Gently, my love!” The pain shot through his groin like a rain of thunderbolts! The Destroyer Himself could not have dealt such a blow! Helplessly, Biff clung to Hototogisu’s shoulders for support. “It’s only flesh!”

Hototogisu giggled merrily. “Biff is funny.”


	18. Prompt #18: Wilt

The common room was at its everyday ease. Alun busied herself slicing onions while a stew boiled in the kitchen, lazily diffusing the aroma of blended spices. A song played by S’dennmo drifted in from the corridor, sweet and somber. Eyrisunn studied that day’s paper in his cozy armchair. Really, it should have brought some comfort to Pudada, who was sharing a tea with Sylveret on the sofa; for she was surrounded by her friends, and finally, after so much hardship, the peace had returned. Yet she peered into her teacup apprehensively, pretending to consider the color with a weak smile.

“I’m sure they’re alright,” she whispered. “Aren’t they?”

“It’s only been a day,” said Sylveret, setting down his cup. “We knew it would be more complicated than a simple chat, despite what they said.”

“Yes, that’s true…” Pudada let out a sigh. “I hope he has recovered. After all that happened on the First—what if he keeps pushing himself?”

“Biff may not be a sharp lad, but he isn’t so foolhardy,” said Eyrisunn, turning the page. “... Anymore.”

“That’s convincing.” Sylveret rolled his eyes.

“He took a calculated risk,” said Alun, setting her knife aside. “I have never known him to be so foolish as to throw his life away. He fights fiercely, and purposefully.”

“That may be true, but…” Her heart ached to remember how his aether crackled and his body crumbled. He would not speak of it, but her healer’s eyes could see how it weighed on him. Pudada shook her head. “He got so sick. I couldn’t bear to see him like that. And we almost lost him…”

Then, from a remote corner under the stairs, came a small voice. “Uncle Biff got sick?”

The eyes of each adventurer fell upon Dolyn Guy, a young midlander draped in robes of jet black. Though his frame was wiry, and his shaggy hair was tied back, he bore a striking resemblance to his uncle in the face. This was a trait shared by all Guys across the world, yes, but Pudada could not help appreciating the miracle of it. No one’s blood was so strong as theirs.

An odd comfort, she considered.

“He was deathly ill, yes,” said Sylveret, harbinger of ugly truths. “He took the Light of the First in him, that he might bring back the night and save what was left of that world.”

Stunned, the boy set down his watering pail. He turned away from their boring, adult gazes, back toward the plants that he was to tend at the window. Then, he spoke. “Tell me more.”

Sylveret shared a look with Pudada, his brow furrowed, his lips pressed thin. When she nodded, he returned it with a stern nod of his own. “Very well. From the beginning, then.”


	19. Prompt #19: Radiant

It made him think of feathers, and a frown that had turned into nothing but smiles. He wished to see that smile everywhere: against the hazy rainbows of Il Mheg, under the sunlight of Costa del Sol, reflected in the twilight waters of the Ruby Sea. He didn’t know how else to describe it, or if it even made sense. Maybe it was a wish to see the world with him. Maybe it was a fixation, a preoccupation with the warmth of that smile. Or, maybe, it was the knowledge that he was the most resplendent soul across all the stars. From that point, no one could persuade him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was a hard one to write for b/c i didn't want to write angst specifically but it kept pushing me to angst. but i wanted to write something sweeter so i could feel happier after writing it, but nothing came from that direction. so i apologize if it is stilted and a bit unfocused, i just struggled with this one


	20. Prompt #20: Bisect

Dolyn stood between Leodaire and Arslang, surveying the crowd with no little amount of wonder. He had never seen his FC mates drip with excitement before—well, not before they had got that new Gyr Abanian striking dummy that everyone collectively decided was “too elegant to punch.” Still, it intrigued Dolyn, who quickly discovered the source of all the fuss. A tall, yellow-haired Elezen draped in black silks of the East brandished his katana. The steel glittered in the sunlight.

“Watch carefully, brothers, lest you miss the miracle,” declared Utau Tsurugi, the self-proclaimed Ishgardian samurai. “With this mighty blade, I shall sunder it in two!”

A hearty cheer rose from the crowd. Dolyn shrank into himself, suddenly wary.

“I thought breaking boards was for hands,” whispered a worried Leodaire.

“It is,” came Arslang’s irate reply. He crossed his arms. “But this is hardly the first of his hideous offenses.”

“Offenses?” Dolyn turned away from the commotion. “What do you mean?”

Arslang glanced between the two Eorzeans, pressing his lips thin. His arms crossed. Then, lowering his eyes, he said nothing. The crowd erupted in noises of approval. 

“What is it, Arslang?” insisted Leodaire, softly. “We are your friends. We would lighten the burdens on your heart, if you would only let us.”

“Agreed,” nodded Dolyn.

Arslang clenched his jaw. “His name is not only stupid, but it’s wrong.”

“Wrong?” Leodaire blinked.

“Yes. It is incorrect. I told him so, but he only laughed and said he liked the way it sounded. It’s a name, he said. Names can be anything.”

“I suppose they can,” conceded Leodaire, furrowing his brow. “But I thought you were of the Azim Steppe.”

“My mother was,” said Arslang. “My father is Hingan.”

“Were there other offenses?” asked Dolyn. “If it’s just his name, we can always ask him to change it again. He’s had it for only a few days.”

“He also declared himself a samurai,” said Arslang, shaking his head. “You do not simply declare yourself a samurai. At the very least, you should have a master.”

“Like any other discipline,” said Leodaire, nodding.

“No. This is different.” Arslang began to wither. “I told him so. I explained it all. He tried to assure me that he had done his research and embraced a ‘bushido’ lifestyle. I told him that wasn’t how it works, but he began to chatter at me about his research, and it was all I could do not to punch him in the face.”

“I don’t understand,” said Leodaire, tilting his head. “What more could he have done? More research? As far as I know, he’s been very respectful…”

Arslang gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Quietly, he averted his gaze.

“I don’t know,” said Dolyn. “You can’t just read a few leaves in a book and say you’ve embraced a lifestyle. It takes years of immersion to learn any subject, doesn’t it? We spend our whole lives learning language, and none of us knows every word that was ever uttered. How is this any different?”

“It’s just a sword,” said Leodaire, with a shrug. “A sword, a name, and some clothes. And he holds them very dear.”

“Yes,” said Arslang, turning away. “It is _them_ he holds dear.”


	21. Prompt #21: Crunch

“That’ll teach ye some manners.”

Bea glowered at the pile of brawny, plated adventurers with clenched fists and bloody knuckles. They were sprawled drunkenly against the stark white pavement. At least two of them had asked her to leave Mist, insisting that the Housing Merchant would be on his way much later in the eve. The truth behind their cheery assertions was something far more sinister: they intended to wait for the merchant themselves, that they might swipe the property deed before anyone else had the chance.

It was not the waiting that had irked Bea so much as the blatant disregard for human decency. Naturally, a veteran of her standing was well aware of the mercurial codes of adventurers, what with their selfish proclivities and relentless tactics. Making a life on the sword required one to make certain sacrifices. Still, it had filled her with disgust that men could be reduced to brats over so mundane a comfort as a house. Chasing trends and indulging aesthetics, these were the antics of coxcombs and milksops. So she had laid them low, the lying bastards.

In any case, she was not against the notion of adventurers _owning_ property. Was she not standing there herself, having waited hours for the useless merchant to rear his head? Granted, she was there, again, for her son’s sake. Not that he had asked. They had been in the market for a small plot of their own, her son and his beloved, so she was eager to find them something close to home. She did not want to pay the astronomical fees of teleporting to Kugane constantly, could they, by some miracle, find a plot in the fantastic neighborhood of Shirogane. And she did not want to have to carry Indy there, though her silly git would be all too happy to oblige.

And yet, the whining had worn her down. Even having crunched the bones of these poor sods, she would still be met with other men-turned-babes who tried their persuasions. How long could she stand tall and meet their competitions of suffering? _I have waited for hours,_ begged one. _I have been looking for days,_ pressed another. It was not as though the search for viable property was inherently competitive, or that everyone else was playing the waiting game, too. Oh, no! These poor souls had been filled with such want that they had convinced themselves of their singular entitlement to the plot. What nerve! Bea gritted her teeth and lifted her heel, ready to plunge it into the thick skull of one particularly useless adventurer.

Then, her heart was filled with the memory of her son’s laugh. She drew away her foot with a sigh. Stranger or no, she could not find it in herself to do something he might be disappointed to hear. Anyroad, he wasn’t like to take a deed that had been sullied by her persuasions of force.

Perhaps she could persuade him to come wait for the merchant himself, what with the competition ‘miraculously’ cleared. This propelled her down the road with a giddy gait. He could not be far off. Her tracker’s instinct (or maternal instinct) told her that much. She had just reached the bottom of the hill, however, when she glanced up at the plot a final time. Three new adventurers had joined the queue, considering the pile of unconscious competitors with much concern.

Damn. Well, the lad could get his own bloody plot, then. Bea’s patience had run dry.


	22. Prompt #22: 'Sophie' / Free Write

‘Sophie.’ It sounded pretty to her long, fluffy ears. That was why she’d chosen it, initially. The world of men was harsh as thunder, sharp as steel, bright as crystal. ‘Sophie’ alone was soft as a leaf dancing in the wind. Yes, the leaf was a dancer, for it belonged no more to the tree of its origin. For that, too, ‘Sophie’ did well. She had never before heard the name whispered in the roots or branches of her home. It had the sound of feathers and the sound of the sea, like an echo traveling the world, forever a ghost of its ongoing life, forever a song of its own frequency. Sophie was a woman of passion, a fire waiting to spread, a seed taking wing. And it was Sophie’s passion to explore this harsh world of man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> about sophie rysto, the new gnb viera who joined the wild willows during 5.0


	23. Prompt #23: Parched

It was his only talent. If he did not flaunt it, how would the others know? Brad’s reading list had never outgrown his already-read list, and for this he always felt pride. He was ridiculously well-organized, as genius was, after all, simply a matter of time management. He had often insisted that Biff spare some time for reading, quietly jealous that the Echo opened his mind to all the world’s literary and political feats. Ah, but his little brother had never much shared his nigh endless thirst for knowledge. Stranger still was the fact that they were brothers at all. And yet, families had come in all shapes and sizes, as history and chronicle reiterated time and time again. Besides, there was no more lovable a lad than his brother, no matter how little-informed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it about brad... like, as in, bradley guy. that dude.


	24. Prompt #24: Unctuous

Ana took the bottle in her hands. Its contents shone crystal blue through the gilded glass. So much like the eyes of her beloved, this color. Perhaps this had been the way to their fate all along.

“Are you certain, my lady?” asked the handmaid at her back. “It will be a dramatic change, and there may be some… discomfort.”

“Do you question the judgment of your lady?” Ana gazed deep into the bottle, burning its shape and size into her memory. “I will only be gone a few days. Now, get going, Eliza—”

“Alyssa, my lady.”

“—Whatever. Keep watch outside the door. Do not move until I have emerged.”

“Yes, my lady.” The handmaid curtsied low and scuttled away.

The door closed with a hiss. Ana smiled at her reflection in the bottle, aglow with that fabulous blue. She had dreamed of this blue, night after night. Intense, glittering in the sunlight. Soft, sparkling under the moon. His warm embrace, his kind smile, his honest heart—she could drown in his soul, if the night never ended. He would be hers again, only hers, and hers ever after. 

Greedily, she uncapped the bottle and poured its magic down her throat.

_Sylveret Jantellot!_ whispered her heart. _Make me Sylveret Jantellot!_


	25. Prompt #25: Trust

Banksy poked his fork into the salted steak, only half listening to the rambunctious banter of his older brothers. No, it was not a night when all ten of them had assembled—that was rare—but it was more of the usual get together dinners, for the ones who had stayed close to home. 

Brette, of course, lived on the farm with Da and Ma, so it was always the destination. Bentley, too, who had stayed behind, always smiled smug in welcome on these nights. Then there was Bowen, Bentley’s twin, who readily bragged about the sum of money that brought him there from Ul’dah, with unprecedented haste each time. Bobby, who came from his bakery in Limsa proper, brought more and more elaborate pastries with every visit. Barden lived on too meager means to come from Gridania, though he claimed it was his leatherworking that kept him busy; Beasley rightfully asserted that it was too much trouble to come down from Ishgard for more than a few times a year; and Bevan, who had settled down far off in Hingashi, saw them on still fewer occasions.

Graciously, the gods had seen fit to make Banksy the eighth in line, and so he had only seven brothers. This made him invisible to the judgments of his elders, who had long settled down with trades and wives and children. He himself was a rogue, though he had managed to make them believe him a junkmnoger (and wasn’t he, after a fashion?). Naturally, they might have redirected their judgments to his younger brother, Brad; but even thirty years had not granted Brad much wisdom of the heart, as he remained hopelessly oblivious to the people around him, glued to his books and theories all day. For that, and more, he had everyone’s pity, but books were a livelihood, and so their worries were quelled.

And then there was the youngest brother, the one who had gone on his adventures.

“I wonder what the lad’s up to these days. Didn’t even come home fer his nameday, the little man.” This came from the far end of the table, where sat Bentley at his father’s right. As he poured the wizened, old man’s drink, he carried on with a sneer. “He thinks he’s a big man now. Heard he were makin’ merry with the rest o’ the realm.”

“It ain’t news though,” said Bowen, the ritzy twin. The lantern lights, dim though they were, set each of the golden notches in his necklace aglitter. “He’ll be back, sooner or later.”

“Sooner, I hope,” said Brad softly, mostly to himself. He stared into his plate. The others continued in their ridicule, unhearing.

“You were at that party, weren’t you?” said Banksy, tone equally hushed. “How did he look? Is he well in health? He weren’t faint or nothin’?”

Brad shook his head. “No, I didn’t see anything like that. He was so happy. He didn’t throw it himself, you know. His friends surprised him with it. He’s not like they say—”

“I know, I know,” said Banksy, patting his back. “You’ve got somethin’ else on your mind though, don’t you?”

Brad shrank into himself. Looking into his lap, he shook his head. “No… I— I don’t think… I wasn’t thinking anything!”

A hush fell over the table. Bobby extended his hand to Brad from across his seat.

“Ye must miss the wee lad,” he said, gently. When Brad did not take the hand, he pulled it away. “He’ll be back before ye know it.”

“T’ collect his allowance, aye,” laughed Bowen, who clinked glasses with his equally laughing twin.

Bobby and Banksy exchanged looks of annoyance. Why they had continued to give a man in his late twenties an ‘allowance’ was anyone’s guess. Next year, the young upstart would be a spry thirty. Banksy guessed that it had to do with ego; whatever pennies they sent had been accepted by a brother who knew to keep his head down.

“He won’t be!” Brad shot up from his chair, pale, fists clenched. He glowered at the others, studying each of their faces with an ineffable intensity. “You don’t understand! It’s happening again, all over again! But this time, he won’t be _here_, and it’s why he hasn’t been _here_, and you’re all too stupid to see it!”

Bansky watched his father curiously. Indy Jo Guy did not look up from his plate. He did not seem to see the look of concern Brette gave him, nor the questions swirling in the eyes of his sons.

“What d’ye mean?” Bentley dared to ask, finding his sneer again. “Ye don’t think he can escape Ma’s grasp, do ye?”

Brad slammed a fist on the table. “Ma couldn’t make him forget Ana! And what now? Ever since he’s gotten together with Mikazuki, even his bloody _friends_ have seen him less! And guess what? They’re betrothed now! And the whole time, the whole damn time, he only had eyes for his pretty, little noble!” His eyes began to water. Banksy sprung to his feet and reached for Brad’s arm, but it was swept away in a vigorous, haphazard motion. “I’m telling you, he’s not coming back! He’ll disappear on us this time, and you’ll all be sorry!”

“But Mikazuki is a decent sort,” said Brette, shaking his head. “Did you—Did you say they were betrothed?”

Brad nodded emphatically. “They didn’t even come home to announce it. I don’t think they will. If he just leaves and marries Mikazuki, he won’t ever need to come back. He’ll have everything he ever wants! This is all your fault, anyway!”

Bentley stood slowly, a shadow crossing his face. “And what exactly did _you_ do t’ make him stay?”

A low blow. This was enough to dampen Brad’s anger, returning him to a long-enduring state of cowardice. He shivered, drawing his arms around himself, meeting no one’s gaze.

“Fancy that, brother,” chuckled Bowen. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve watched a grown man cry.”

“That’s what ye get,” agreed a pleased Bentley, finding his seat again.

Bobby looked helplessly between the twins, then to Brette, who merely looked on with an aloof disapproval. The twins continued to laugh in the hanging silence.

“Enough.” A voice deep, low and raspy. This could only belong to their father, who looked up at them with his sharp, grey eyes. “Bradley. Over here.”

A meek Brad shuffled to his father’s side, uncertain. Rare was the occurrence that the old man uttered a word. When he did, it was one of those throw-away, cotton-brained sorts of sayings that one didn’t really commit to memory.

“I won’t have any of ye draggin’ poor Biff’s name through the mud,” said Indy, slowly. “So long as yer Ma’s on holiday, yer all t’ shut yer traps about it. I don’t care how ye feel, what ye feel. That’s yer little brother yer talkin’ about. Yer _littlest_ brother. You sorry sods are supposed t’ be protectin’ him. Every one o’ ye.”

Banksy, seating himself, wished he could look away from his father. An ugly, self-conscious feeling crawled under his skin. No one was the exception.

“That poor lad’s out protectin’ the realm instead,” growled Indy. “How could ye let that happen to that sweet boy? And about this business with his fella—” He found Brad’s gaze a time more. “—the same goes. Maybe ye don’t trust yer brother’s judgment, but that man did no wrong. Anyone with eyes could see his loyalty, and that’s what counts. Now, go, eat, and get yer bloody head together. I said what I said. I’ll hear no more of this.”

Banksy opened his mouth— 

“I’m fed up,” said Indy, reaching for his cane. “You lot don’t know what it means t’ be a Guy.”

With that, Indy hobbled away, and Banksy… closed his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who knew the drama could be THIS juicy


	26. Prompt #26: Slosh

Ever Starfall listened, with no little amusement, to the din of the Wandering Stairs. Patrons raised their glasses in fits of joy and rage, pride and despair. She had picked up, too, at least three morsels of gossip which were sure to entertain S’dennmo later in the evening; but, by far, her favorite voices belonged to the two drunks who sang happily to each other, red in the face, barely coordinated, and yet still somehow managing to take hearty sip after hearty sip. It was equal parts impressive and unsurprising, naturally, given that the two drunks were men such as Eyrisunn and Biff.


	27. Prompt #27: Palaver

Ever did not often visit the guild anymore. Initially, she had been starstruck; it was filled with mages passionate about learning, about crafting theories and scouring histories, about discovering newer and newer methods of spellcraft. Speaking to anyone brought one to the reference of a book, the discussion of which brought upon the reference of another book, and one’s reading list could grow forever like this. The kindness of her mentors, busy though they were, was enough to dull the stings of pretension that one suffered from prideful colleagues. But those had been her days as a sprout, no knowledge under her belt, no opinions that had hardened any which way.

Lately, when she visited the guild, it came with the baffling, recurring realization of her own mastery. She need not say anything to the others as she perused the guild’s collection of old tomes. They recognized her as a skilled part-timer, nodded in welcome, and carried on with their tedious debates. Where one mage might boast of his confidence in his skill, and indeed his years of experience that made him superior, Ever kept quiet as to the truth of the matter with much pain and restraint. Indeed, one might boast thirty years of experience, but this did not always equal thirty years of mastery; for ten might be spent stuck in the throes of novicehood, the next ten in a slow gathering of wisdom, and the last ten in the paralysis of self certainty that one had obtained a level of mastery previously unknown.

These were not uncommon sentiments, nor were they always stated so blatantly. Affected humility and complicated words shrouded the intentions of most men. Yet, Ever had learned her lesson the hard way, once upon a time. Making friends with them had proven impossible, for these were the types of men who seldom reflected upon their conduct with genuine sincerity. A man like that, or any kind of person, was not possessed of a heart one could reach—not without lengthy debates, marrying logic and passion to such an intense degree that it robbed the soul of purpose, resolve, and, indeed, concern. Still, so often she had tried, and returned home with naught but an unfairly wounded ego, her voice having been lost in a sea of passionate voices, determined, with no little stubbornness, to have their ideas heard.

She could understand the need for recognition. Ever was not one to spare words of praise where praise was due. What she failed to comprehend was the divide between herself and these prattling, preening peacocks; why could she not be one of them? (Exhaustion-induced lack of respect aside.) The stronger she grew, and the sharper her mind, the clearer her vision became. What these men thought to be miracles had become matter-of-fact to her; and when they spoke to her of their feats, she did not know to be impressed by them. Indeed, they were all in the guild for their love of magic and dripping, gripping curiosity toward the depthless Void, but there was something more for which they were looking, a something more she had found elsewhere, long ago.


	28. Prompt #28: Attune

Many were the tales begun under the warmth of that brilliant, blue light. A lad from the rolling hills of La Noscea had once reached out to it, beckoning its aether to show him the way. He had never thought himself capable of learning magic; even less did he think himself worthy. Still, a kind face and a pair of understanding eyes had ushered him along, and he had soon learnt the trick to it. He would never forget the touch of that light, soft and gentle, encouraging. It was needed after the hard night spent alone in the rain. Every drop had brought with it a harsh, cool doubt. _You’ll die out there,_ whispered one. _They won’t accept you,_ hissed another. _You can still go back,_ urged a third.

_Give up! Give up! Give up!_

But the light yielded no words of scrutiny or scorn. It shone brightly, a star upon the earth, a beacon of crossroads, an origin of possibilities. He was only a young man, barely seventeen, but he could hear in the silence a world entire waiting to be seen. He could not give up before then. Maybe, too, he would find some friends. That would be grand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my poor biff


	29. Prompt #29: Passion / Free Write

Only a madman smiled as much as he did, and folk did think he _was_ a little mad. It had more to do with that thunderous laugh, a violent clamour that rippled from the throat, threatening to rend the flesh. A stranger might fear that laugh, but a friend knew to hear the mirth in it and the passion from which it emerged. Beyond that, there was the kindness in his eyes. It softened all the hardness of the man and opened his heart to any looking to see it.

Still, most agreed that he had always seemed a little off-kilter. Soldiers seldom trade their arms so often as he did. An axe became a lance became a katana. Some said he had started with a bow, but rare was the sight of him carrying one. Others claimed him a monk. Others still, a knight of the black. That was the most galling of them all, the laughing man wielding a shadowed greatsword. Those stories switched the kindness in his eyes for hunger, of a sort. For blood, for revenge, for sport. They were the stories born of fear, from the hearts of vulnerable folk who saw power and knew only its pain.

Maybe there _was_ a hunger, but it could never snuff out the softness. It was not what he fought for, not really. Even when he spoke in favor of this myth, it came from passion, as all things did that came from him. A fire to protect the weak, perhaps, or a conviction born of depthless grief. Losing friends never gets any easier, he would say. The spark left his eyes, then, but never the softness. It was the heart of the passion, the center of his soul, the source of his strength. It was the love he bore for the world. That was the real reason for his helm of black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cries biff why


	30. Prompt #30: Darkness

_My little shadow._ He missed the name. It had been uttered long ago, before the sickness took him. Before the nightmares had begun. The name had touched his heart with cool fingers, bringing a calm to his mind long forgotten. He found his breath at its utterance. Easily, he fell into those strong arms that held him firmly and fiercely. It was founded on a love that, in the moment, had known only hope and trust and peace in the chaos. And when the Light burned in his soul, filling his lungs, leaking into his eyes, splintering his soul—when the Light had come to drown him in its radiance, so too did it wash out the name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did u mean... ABOUT BIFF???


End file.
